Raunchy Covers of False Love Stories
by Jazzi-chan
Summary: She’s a little porcelain doll and he wants to break her. [ H a r r y & G i n n y ]


**Disclaimer: **Not J K Rowling. Not Jewel.

**S**he's beautiful. Her hair's pinned up and her face is alive and she looks like she should be on top of a Christmas tree, not walking her brother down the aisle. She's been painted up right and her dress is made of the reflection of a sunset on the water—pure, liquid brilliance. Her steps are practiced, her shoes are satin. She's a little porcelain doll and he wants to break her.

She's beautiful, and she has no right. She's standing there in the corner, laughing at the boy who will be her cousin-in-law. She's joyful and perfect when the world's so dark. It's a self-pitying day, gray and damp but not depressed enough to rain, but inside there is sun. Inside, she is the sun. Golden beams of tenderness reach out to encompass him in her light. He would cast her in shadow, reclaim his caged sparrow. He shrinks away.

She's beautiful and she's wretched. He finds her in the corner just before dawn, her virgin white gown crinkled and creased. The perfect ringlets and daisy crown are tangled and torn. Her face is streaked with tears and they have wiped her tears away. She greets him with a smile that could break his heart. She's still a child, there's still hope in those eyes. There is no hope for him. He will be a murderer. He will be murdered. She's everything he's fighting for, and he hates her for it.

_I will meet you  
In some place  
Where the light lends itself  
To soft repose_

Someone, he thinks, should find her, paint her hair in soft curls and her cheeks with bright rose. Draw a man, strong and handsome and perfect, between her legs, and paste them to the cover of a romance. She deserved to be a heroine. She deserved a happy ending.

Heroine.

Heroine.

She's his brave heroine. He'll keep fighting everyone's battle, because she needs him to. He needs her, and she needs him, too.

Did she move? Her hand's over his heart and she can feel it fluttering fiercely. Gentle and perfect, she's such a child. He never got to be like that. He hates her for it. His kiss is violent, and it scares her. She turns away, but he is quicker. His grip is strong.

_I will let you undress me_

She doesn't fight it. Not now. He will be leaving, and if he needs it . . . Well, she loves him. She wants what he wants. She needs what he needs. She sighs as his hands slowly undo the clasp. Lacey fabric falls to the ground and she is bare before him. Green eyes are sharp, studying her, and for a moment she is afraid.

_But I warn you  
I have thorns  
Like any rose_

He is the Chosen One. He is the Boy Who Lived. He is Harry Potter, and he is perfect. Her skin is pale and freckled, and there is a scar along her hip. He traces a finger along it and she shivers. She is imperfect. She was not made to be a temptress of men. She is not for covers of magazines and driving men wild.

"Harry, I . . ."

"Shut up. Just shut up."

_And you could hurt me  
With your bare hands_

Her hands tremble as they push against the buttons, forcing them slowly through the loops. But he is not so patient. He roughly forces her hands away. Buttons clatter against plaster and stone and fall to the carper. His shirt falls away, and his chest is bare. He is strong. Her hands trace his torso in admiration. He bares scars of battles hardly won. He bares no resemblance to anything she has ever seen. Ron is milky white with amber freckles. Dean is tan and rough. But Harry . . . Harry is starlight.

_You could hurt me  
With the sharp end  
Of what you say_

The first time is never perfect. The couch beneath her bare skin is rough and cheap. It is stained with many years of Christmas mornings and Sunday nights. He grips her tightly with the knees he has placed on either side of her hips. His trousers are new and need a good scrubbing before they will be soft. They itch. His kiss is demanding. Instinctively she knows. She won't be good enough.

_But I'm lost to you now  
And there's no  
Amount of reason  
That could save me_

His trousers fall away. His tongue is warm against her shoulder. The fabric will cover it there. No one will ever know. He isn't the type for bragging.

She arches her back in silence. Words have all fallen away. Syllables swarm in the distance between their bodies without meaning. Love. Lust. Need. Hope. Future. Now. Forever. Sex. They don't mean anything now. There is no 'him', there is no 'her'. One and one do not form two. They are just both—not separate, not together, just them.

_So break me  
Take me  
Just let me  
Feel your arms again_

She has missed him. He is safe. His entire body covers her on the couch, and she has nothing to do but hold still. He wants nothing of her, other than just to be. She is Ginny. She is beautiful. She is herself. It is enough.

Hard, firm, pulsing, she feels it against her thigh. It startles her. Reality is not so safe. There are unwanted children in an unhappy world. She won't create another. She won't be the girl he can use. He is going to leave her. She won't let him leave her like this.

She has a family, a life. She is a good person. She deserves more. She deserves a ring, a promise. She deserves a happily ever after. She can see it in his eyes: He knows it, but he doesn't care. She is comfort. She is life without war and war without conviction—the war between their tongues as they dance in his mouth.

She tilts her head away. "Harry . . . No."

It is too late. He is already inside.

She gasps and wreaths in pleasure and in pain.

_Break me  
I'll let you make me  
Just let me  
Feel your love again_

Is he good? She doesn't know. She can compare him only to the raunchy novels hidden beneath her bed. Princes and slaves grinding desperately in the night. Grinding desperately, jack-hammering towards and explosive finish. She isn't seeing stars. She is only seeing Harry.

_Feels like being underwater  
Now that I've let go  
And lost control  
Water kisses fill my mouth  
Water fills my soul_

She isn't the heroine of a romance novel. There are no fairy god mothers or magic carpet rides. There is just the darkness of the night and the darkness of his heart. She is breathing in his ear, short wisps and gasps and he is moving slowly but deliberately. His fingers lace with his, his mouth covers hers in butterfly kisses. They move together in an intricate dance, and suddenly they both know the steps.

_Kiss me once  
Well, maybe twice  
Oh, it never felt so nice_

She can't move and he goes rigid. A new sort of pleasure is released and they press together one last time. He releases his tension deep inside of her. Hers rains down around him. They collapse, one sweating, panting body. Salt and sweat binds their flesh and paint them an inscrutable abstract.

_So break me  
Take me  
Let me  
Feel your arms again_

She is his heroine; his brave, strong hero. She is his heroine; his lethally addictive drug. They merge thrice more before he leaves. He thinks of her constantly. She prays for him before she falls asleep. There will never be anyone else.

_Break me  
Make me  
Just let me  
Feel your arms again_

She is not alone. The ground stretches dark and hopeless beneath her window, three stories down. Night has crept through the cracks and penetrates her room. The light on her desk is providing naught. She is draped in darkness, one hand resting on the bulge in her belly.

He doesn't know, but it is a comfort to her. He is always with her, growing inside of her. In dreams he will always return. They merge and he holds her, she is once again complete. She sleeps a lot these days. It is tiring work, carrying his child—baby Hope.

She cries for his arms as she lays lonely in her bed. Prayers rise numbly from her lips, and his image immerges in dream. The sensations are less real. She has forgotten what he tastes like, but his arms are just as safe. Just as strong. Just as sure.

_Just let me  
Feel your love again_


End file.
